


Cocoon

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related: Warriors, First Times, M/F - Category, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      There is angst, there is conceptual weirdness, there is reinterpretation of series events to a degree that could be called parallel universe - but then isn't most slash Senfic? And these are the unbeta-ed words of a tired wannabe scientist. Are you running yet? <p>There are post story notes too.</p><p>
    </p></blockquote>





	Cocoon

**Author's Note:**

> There is angst, there is conceptual weirdness, there is reinterpretation of series events to a degree that could be called parallel universe - but then isn't most slash Senfic? And these are the unbeta-ed words of a tired wannabe scientist. Are you running yet? 
> 
> There are post story notes too.

## Cocoon

by Spyke

Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

Author's disclaimer: Not mine, not mine except the words and some of them aren't mine either.

* * *

\-- 

These are words to live by: 

I am infinite; I contain multitudes. 

Armies are full of gentle men. 

(So the city dreams) 

\-- 

A city can dream in monochrome radiation; in packets of light and heat and low thrumming acoustic vibrations given off from the buildings and bodies that make up its life, each quantum intertwining, segueing and quantifying into the sight and sounds of a million hopes, a million dreams. A city can dream and for itself. 

Therefore entity or multiplicity, a city can speak in a babbling rush of a million voices or in one quiet whisper that sums up the rest. Cities dream, cities speak, and those with ears to hear, let them hear. Or understand, which is not the same thing. 

\-- 

(This is not where the story begins) 

For Jim Ellison, right then sound was concentrated to a low loud throbbing beat caroming off the walls and into his skull, drowning all specific voices into a soft tidal wave that swamped his senses. He heard and felt nothing, overdosed on sensation, on the butterfly woman in his arms, the tattoo on her shoulder looping an intricate spray of ferns and lithe winged creatures around the tentative muscle. 

He pulled her in closer, feeling the warm strength of her against his chest, softness delineating his own male species. She smiled up at him as he buried his face in her hair; long strands that curled around his nose and tickled, making him want to sneeze. 

Old enough to know about this place, young enough to dance willingly in a stranger's arms, pressing her body against his - twenty-four. Maybe twenty-five. So Jim's fingers traced the curves of hennaed skin and ghosted lightly up to her ear, tenderly tucking back a strand of hair. She sighed and angled her body closer. 

What was her name again? 

"You don't look like you come here often," she aimed her words at his ears so as not to yell. "I'd have noticed." 

When she opened her lips to continue the sentence, Jim found himself kissing her, trying to stop her from speaking. She gave in easily, lips warm and soft against his, tongue snaking out to describe an incredibly erotic ouroborous, peppering his skin with tiny kisses in time to the unresolved tribal beat still pounding through the walls. 

He remembered belatedly to carefully balance touch, taste and scent so that he wouldn't come just from the whisper of heated breath exchanging with his. Not that there was much danger of it, not with the noise and heated rush of sweat-drenched air, the thousand anti-odors of deodorant and mascara melding and destroying even the fleeting pleasure of holding a warm body in his arms by reminding him that this was someone he'd never held before. Never wanted to hold before. 

"Want to go somewhere quieter?" Jim would have bitten his tongue off for that sentence except he realized it hadn't come from his mouth. 

Taking silence as consent, the woman looped his wrist with two fingers, tilting her head in appreciation. 

"This way." 

Jim followed her off the dance floor and upstairs to a plethora of tiny nooks and cubbyholes amply furnished with cushions and makeshift beds. 

No. No beds. 

Without warning, he found an empty corner and pulled them both into it, pushing his dance partner up against the wall, cherishing the feel of softness against him, sharpening his sight in the dark to watch her eyes turn feral, smoky and hungry. If he concentrated hard enough... 

... he could see flakes of lipstick and foundation cascading off her face as her lips moved. 

Jim shook his head and zoomed back to normal vision, leaning in to take her mouth. 

"Wait." She placed a finger on his lips and sweetly kissed around it. "I need you to promise me we'll be careful. Safe," and for that alone Jim realized he loved her a little, just for that fiery pure hunger inside that made her trust a stranger with her body and her safety, even for a while. 

Afterwards he'd tell her to be more careful, he promised himself after they were done he'd tell her not to trust people so easily. Even the right people could hurt you so easily. 

"I promise," he said and she removed her finger, allowing their lips to meet. 

The music and heat fell away, letting other things take over and engage his senses. He remembered how this went. The feel of soft skin on flesh, hands slipping under the blouse to cup firm, warm breasts, the slick wandering of a thumb beneath a skirt and his mouth on hers to swallow gasps before pulling away to bite gently at her earlobe. The cool sharp taste of quartz and Jim licked a careful tracing around the stud in her ear, remembering how much he'd loved it done to him. 

She shivered again, but returned silence for silence. Silent and stayed quiet, her body radiating intense rippling pools of reciprocated desire. Jim found himself opening, drawing into her, almost loving her for this, for the giving she was doing for him, the giving and not asking but letting him in when her face - 

Was a thousand pinpricks of sensation against his, her hair was long and soft, sliding through his fingers, but her kiss - 

Her kiss was not what he wanted it to be. Then Jim remembered that they'd never kissed before and that made it easier to feel her body trembling-willing against his, grounding sensation. 

She cried into his mouth at last, little soft mewling noises that he swallowed with her taste, trying hard not to imprint. Not here. Not her. So he held her against him for a second instead, punishing himself with the feel of her clothed flesh against his not-yet-uncomfortable hardness, pushing but not humping, letting her heartbeat come down as his self-hatred grew, feeling the damp of perspiration as it released scent and sultry heat. 

He'd already decided not to come. Not with musk and arousal, citrus tang of perfume and the memory of her breasts half cupped in his hands. Exquisitely female but strangely wrong. 

Jim inhaled, wishing he hadn't. Too much, too many - suddenly he was aware that the blood in his ears pounded with the harsh drumbeat, that the air was full of noise and dust and smells he couldn't isolate for long enough to recognize, that what had seemed like protection now seemed old and jaded... unclean almost. 

She leaned up and kissed his cheek, the soft intimacy of that almost too gentle. 

"Thank you," she whispered and Jim looked at her, momentarily arrested. 

"You're welcome." Knowing he had to tell her something but not entirely sure what it was. Then he remembered. 

"Be careful," he said, holding her at arms length, looking into her eyes to let her see he was serious. "Be very careful." 

Her brow furrowed but she nodded as he kissed her forehead, almost brotherly, before leaving. 

They didn't exchange numbers. 

\-- 

Outside was cool, blessed refuge from the silence. Jim stood a while, feeling the heat and drums radiate off the wall and into his soul, the graffiti on the walls shivering in time to the distanced noise. 

The air shimmered, turning monochrome. 

"No," Jim said, and the city listened to him, struggling for a tantalizing second before reshaping into empty air. 

He walked away, back to his truck, ignoring the curious bouncer guarding the door, clenching his palms against the still sparking feel of electricity rushing through his veins. Ignoring the whispers that reverberated in his ears, a thousand, ten thousand voices and words calling to him in thin tendrils of ghost sound. 

Behind him the air moved softly, rushing in to fill in the empty spaces. 

Jim walked to his truck and did not dream. 

\-- 

Blair was sitting on the couch, back to the door as Jim opened it, spectacles perched on his nose as he made marks on paper, some tentative, some in bright bold red splotches indicating either supreme disinterest or extraordinary intelligence on the examinee's part. He looked up while completing a particularly virulent series of looping words. "You're home early." 

A completely non-judgmental remark: the casual curiosity of a roommate greeting a roommate. 

Jim grunted and took the stairs up to his room two at a time, coming down with towels and bathrobe, noting on his return trip that Blair had politely returned his eyes to grading. 

One look at himself in the bathroom mirror and Jim realized why. His reflection was haggard and microcosmic. 

Jim had to make himself blink away, focus upwards and ignore the crawling sensation that was his immediate reaction to the one glimpse of the thousands of tiny bacteria that thrived on his skin. Stupidly he reached up to touch. 

His skin burned, fingers tracing tiny welts wherever they traveled. 

Fighting nausea, he stepped into the shower, already scrubbing himself with soap and antiseptic before the water had time to heat. 

Cold beat down on him, hissing gently, or perhaps that was him. But no \- as the water rushed out, whispering, Jim remembered that pipes and plumbing connected the entire building, the entire city and where the molecules traveled they picked up vibrations that translated into voices and scent and sound. 

Jim inhaled and turned the water off, bracing himself against the wall, refusing to listen. Then he reached out for the entire array of Blair's natural herbal cleansers, using them carefully and in order. 

Scent rose as the voices receded. Jim closed his eyes and rubbed shampoo in his hair, ears straining and filtering for the sound of a pen lightly scratching on paper, the sound of Blair forming ordered words. 

He finished his shower and came out of the bathroom, towel low slung over his hips, skin slightly shiny from the heat. 

Blair sniffed audibly. "Jojoba is really you." 

"Shut up Sandburg." Jim got himself a beer and sat next to Blair, careful not to drip on the papers. 

Blair made a couple of marks against the sheet in his hand then put it away. "Rough night?" asked softly but not pushing, one hand already reaching out for the next exam. 

Jim shrugged and drank his beer. 

He watched Blair grade papers while droplets of water cooled against his skin and the beer slid easier down his throat. An hour, maybe ten minutes before he finished his drink and reached around the mounds of paper to put the can on the table, brushing his fingers in passing over the straggly threads emerging from Blair's jeans. A caress so slight and inadvertent he didn't think his partner would notice it. 

Except Blair arched his head backwards and moved his thigh closer in a tiny unconscious movement that made Jim clench his teeth in sudden memory of other nights and other people and words that never got spoken. 

He retrieved his hand, careful not to touch anything that might break. 

"Jim," Blair said, or the city whispered. 

"I'm going to bed," said Jim and he did. 

No one stopped him. 

\-- 

Four a.m. and Jim could hear Blair move below, turning over in sleep. He listened for more, silently concentrating until he felt ghosts pass over his face, smoky hands and pinpricks of fingernails stroking his chin and cheeks, reminding him they were there. 

Jim closed his eyes and forced himself not to feel. 

He heard their voices in his dreams anyway. 

The jungle turned to asphalt, glistening blocks of buildings filled with scurrying life. A woman cried in his arms, then turned into a butterfly and flew away. Jim chased after it for a while, then stopped, looking around the jungle, wondering when it had turned so quiet. 

He woke, the sleep mask heavy on his eyes as the smell of hot coffee drifted upstairs, chasing some of the night away. 

Apart from breakfast, Blair had left him a note on the table detailing his schedule. Jim memorized the contents of the note and kept the paper anyway, tucked into his shirt pocket. It helped somewhat, though the sunshine and bright noises hit him hard as he stepped into the truck. Still, he managed the drive to the PD safely. 

There was mail on his desk, unsorted. Flyers, a letter from Carolyn that he put in the pocket with Blair's note, to be read later, a bill from the funeral parlor... 

Jim wrote a check to cover the last and signed it carefully before dutifully opening his email folder and reading every department issued circular with quiet concentration. Around him white noise grew and dulled in normal circadian rhythms. As Jim's ears adjusted, the sound turned into silence, or as close as made no difference, allowing a single pattern to emerge in haunting counterpoint to his breathing. 

Living heartbeats: one of them possibly his own. The whispers were definitely not his own. 

"I can't understand you," Jim replied softly, casting words into a blanket of air. "I can hear you but I can't understand what you're saying. Not now." _Not yet_

_Please stop_

The voices grew softer, a hissing cacophony that was even mildly soothing for a little while. In time they faded completely, leaving only remnants that bounced in the air. 

White noise grew again, sounds of files opening and drawers closing, fingers typing and the occasional bout of laughter. 

Jim answered his email. 

\-- 

He read Carolyn's letter at lunchtime. She sounded cheerful enough, if a little strained. It all came out in the last paragraph though, where she told him she was sorry, that she hoped he was doing okay, naming no names but saying enough to remind him that what had always been true of the two of them. The same inarticulate need felt at the same time, the gaping holes in their psyches that couldn't be filled when their bodies overlapped. 

Jim refolded the letter and held it in his hand for a second before putting it carefully back in the envelope. To be shredded later. 

He promised himself he'd email her tonight, thank her for her concern, maybe even find words that wouldn't sound stilted and formal. Because he did appreciate that she remembered him; that she cared enough to read the papers and put two and two together and write words that he might not have been able to hear. 

Carolyn. 

The scent of wet earth hit him at the same time as the air folded and Jim closed his eyes, guiltily inhaling rain and the memory of warm, wet foliage, remembering a hand on his shoulder that became a palm on his cheek and a kiss to his lips, the sweet pain of scent memory, sense memory of the people he thought he'd loved most in the world. 

One who left him, one who died and - 

And the voices returned in distant uneasiness, a cry, a complaint, from the next building the urgent gasping of two lovers hot-sweaty-entangled beyond recognition. This time they refused to go away. 

Jim listened. 

"Hey." A voice broke through the pattern, fingers lightly skimmed across his shoulder as Blair sat down and shook off his jacket. "Sorry I'm late. What's good here?" 

They call this transference, Jim reminded himself, handing Blair the extra menu. Still, it didn't stop him from imprinting every last detail of his partner's presence, hoarding sensation like a talisman against evil. For protection against who he was. Who he was becoming. 

_I pass the way of the shaman on to you_

He didn't think that Blair had actually asked for that, didn't think that Blair for all his enthusiasm would have volunteered if he'd known what they'd be getting into. 

Then Blair brushed his hand while reaching for the salt and Jim looked up, startled. 

"We should talk tonight?" Blair asked casually, and Jim lowered his gaze for a second. Blair waited patiently, finally repeating 

"Tonight," and Jim nodded, releasing his death grip on the fork. 

When he looked up again, Blair was smiling, chattering about Naomi's latest letter, the words looping around in crazy sense that soothed and relaxed Jim to the point where lunch became non-threatening and almost normal again. 

Blair brushed his hand again on the way out to the parking lot, palm open, fingers loose. Jim made himself reciprocate the gesture and found that on the next conjuncture their palms slip-slid for a second, almost connecting, sending a frisson through his body that he would remember for the rest of the day. 

He drove one-handed, glad Blair had brought his own car and wasn't there to see him hold his palm flat against the side of his jeans, holding the memory of Blair's touch, retaining the sensation against denim as long as he could. 

\-- 

This is how a man gains the strength to be a warrior - by absorbing the lives of those he loves and moving on, leaving their corpses behind. A strong man can survive many wars this way. A brave man would die the first chance he could. 

For some reason Jim had never been able to fathom, apparently he was still alive. 

It really didn't seem fair. 

\-- 

There was a suspected rape/murder case waiting on his desk when Jim got back, the last piece falling into place like expected but not wanted, a particularly ugly jigsaw puzzle. Simon wanted his input since something was wrong with forensics' three hundred thousand dollar spectralyzer \- and Jim could hardly refuse. 

Could barely restrain his sudden sense of vociferous relief when the body was not someone he'd known even briefly. Though the stranger ghost hovered around like the rest, unintelligibly screaming in horror and hate. 

"I don't understand," Jim reminded them again, but they wouldn't fade to background. 

His cell-phone beeped. 

"Jim," 

Jim nodded, then remembered Sandburg couldn't see him. 

"I'm coming home now," he promised and got the hell out of the morgue. A few ghosts followed, but were driven away by the fading scent of Blair in the truck. 

Jim drove carefully, one-handed, filtering for sanity. \-- 

Blair waited for him on the balcony, holding on to the railing. In front of him the sky deepened to indigo-purple, the faint gleam of city lights becoming more distinct with the falling dark. Jim moved forward to join him and Blair turned slightly, so they were almost touching, hip brushing thigh, a cue Jim took to mean he could step closer and rest his hands on Blair's shoulders. 

As they breathed the air thrummed with a thousand different dreams. 

"What do you hear?" Blair spoke, disturbing the air and chasing ghosts even with his voice as soft as he could make it. 

"Who don't I hear?" and Jim felt his mouth twist out of shape. Maybe in bitterness, maybe in fear. 

_This isn't what you signed up for, is it Chief_? 

"Go inside?" 

A question, Jim realized, and it made his heart beat faster to know that there were some things even Blair was unsure of, even afraid of and maybe this was one. Which would make the next move Jim's and for a second that was too much responsibility. 

The city hummed at them, promising, warning. Too much information, and Blair shivered. 

Jim gripped his shoulders tightly, unthinkingly rasping the first words that came to mind. 

"Inside." Too late remembering to gentle it with "Please." 

They went inside and closed all the doors before moving to the kitchen in unspoken agreement to let routine substitute for a while, calming them both. At least Jim thought it was an agreement, hoped it was, as he focused all senses on the nearness of Blair and felt other things recede to the back of his mind. 

Not the most sensible thing to do while chopping vegetables, and Jim ended up drawing the knife in a clean straight line across his index finger, watching in detachment as a tiny spatter of blood fell on the potatoes. 

Blair turned almost instantly. 

"Ah Jim," and he was there as Jim leaned back into the counter, letting Blair take his hand and examine it carefully. 

"It's deep," Blair said and Jim nodded, inhaling in pain, maybe at the finger, maybe at the warmth that emanated from the figure encased in suddenly too-tight blue jeans and soft looseness of shirt that Jim wanted to, wanted to 

And he'd have pulled his hand away except he felt Blair breathe heavier and widen his stance slightly, just slight enough that Jim could insert his knee between the v of Blair's legs that closed about Jim, felt Blair grip Jim's hand tightly and bring the palm up for a reverent touch of lips. 

Their free hands gripped and Jim felt himself falling, plummeting with death velocity into the maw of a black hole, a scary, _necessary_ ride that was made up of the feel of Blair murmuring softly over his skin. 

Somehow they made it to the couch, hands still interlocked, falling over each other's feet in a desperate attempt to maintain connection and never let go. 

One of them reached out to hold the other and then they were both holding, embracing, Jim's face buried in Blair's hair, finally imprinting, recording, because this, this, _this_ was right, and scary and real, but right, right, _right_. 

It had to be. 

After a while he loosened his grip enough to let Blair slip free if he really wanted to go, but the man stayed, pressing himself firmly against Jim. 

Jim swallowed and tightened his arms around his friend, closing his eyes and refusing to think for a moment. Because dark, dark was safe, at least for a while with all windows bolted and doors locked there'd be no sight or sound except what they made together. If anything. Together. 

As afraid as they both were, they were here. Together. 

And since Blair showed no signs of wanting to leave yet, Jim closed his eyes, the barriers safe as he let go and listened to his city. 

\-- 

Blair's heart was an arrhythmic whoosh-thump of fluid and opening ventricles, his lungs a dull thud of hollow sound. His breath - 

His breath ghosted over Jim's cheeks, lips opening and shaping words against skin, a connection of life to life that affirmed and grounded the Sentinel. Allowing him to decode the patterns of his city. 

The voices - 

"...ten, maybe twenty more..." 

"...didn't order..." 

"...not before dinner, I told you, now go to your room..." 

(fear) 

"...No! NO!" 

(anger) 

"..fuck you ...BITCH!" 

Hatred, lust, need, joy, laughter, obsession - complete and confusing tsunami of sounds that washed through and over Jim, trying to wash him away but not succeeding because Blair held on to him, keeping him down, keeping him real and letting him find his own pattern in all the sounds as the city dreamed in monochrome, radiation ghosts scurrying to his side now that they knew they were understood. Jim endured and Blair held, buffering and surely feeling the pain himself. 

All the words. All the sounds. 

All the people. Too much need for one man to bear. 

_And for two_? 

Blair held Jim as the city hummed. 

\-- 

"How could you stand it so long? Alone?" Blair murmured to himself, but Jim heard him, lying on his back against the couch, Blair in his arms, lips inches from his neck. Blair's fingertips touching Jim's temples lightly. 

Jim's breath hitched. 

"Is it always like this?" Blair asked. Jim shook his head. 

"I don't know." And he didn't. Even in Peru he'd not been attuned to the... the _lives_ of every man, woman and child in the tribe and that was exactly what it felt like now, a huge, giant empathy that might focus on needs, specific and deliberate as and when required - required by a mind not entirely human though made up of human. 

Jim shuddered and Blair kissed him. Actually raised himself off his elbows slightly and leaned up to press his lips against Jim's, grounding him with contact that suddenly became promising. 

Blair pulled away, licking his lips slightly and Jim groaned. 

"Is this what he did for you in Peru?" 

Blair didn't say _his_ name much, too raw for him, for both of them and Jim could feel the almost confused hurt radiating off Blair and tangling with the other lines being established between the two of them. 

Lines Jim had fought longest to prevent from being tied around the two of them, afraid to tie himself and tether Blair, unsure even after his friend had made it clear this was what he wanted. 

Because this wasn't. It couldn't be. 

_Guess this makes me the shaman of the Great City_

_You don't know what you're asking for, Chief_

"Hey Jim," and Blair's voice was soft against his skin, Blair's pen-calloused fingers rough as they stroked his cheek with a tentative hungry touch as if defying fate to prove them both unreal. 

"I'm here," and Jim reached up to clasp Blair's palm in his, remembering that he'd always loved these hands, hands and a face and a soul that he loved so maybe the rest of it would be easier. 

Because to be finally, gloriously and unhappily truthful he wanted it. God, he wanted Blair, selfishly wanted all of Blair and nothing less, so he hoped Blair wanted him too, at least a little, because otherwise \- 

"Want to answer my question?" 

Jim shook his head, as much to dislodge ghosts as anything else. They weren't rushing at him now, he had some measure of control. Blair had given him that, Blair who grinned half-heartedly at Jim's reticence but didn't pull back, instead rested his cheek on Jim's chest. Like maybe he understood how new this was, and how deep and still painful and even if they were - what they were now, even fate and intertwined destinies didn't give either of them the right to dive right into the other's privacy. 

Didn't it? 

_Lights off, no one's home..._

"He never slept with me," Jim said instantly and then decided to eat a bullet for assuming - 

Blair reached up and covered Jim's mouth with his fingers, refusing to move even after Jim kissed them softly, grateful for the silence that cocooned and allowed him room to breathe. 

A tiny sigh and he felt Blair whisper against his shirt. 

"I can feel you," in wonder, not resignation, walking his fingers around Jim's face, learning texture and planes and the angles of bone. "And you're beautiful," he whispered, sounding half-ashamed. 

Jim closed his eyes again, calming his heart. 

Beautiful he might just be able to handle. For however long it took Blair to realize this wasn't what he'd signed up for. 

_Forever. Commitment. Not just friendship, if even that._

How long before their combined ghosts and reflected needs drove one of them away or sucked him dry? 

"You hear that?" Blair said, cradling Jim's head with his palms, cocooning and sheltering the larger man's body with his. "I can hear that. Your heart." 

Jim nodded, half-asleep. 

Blair's arms tightened around him. "I'm here." 

"I know." 

"I'm staying." 

That he didn't know. 

"Damn. I forgot - I'm going to get you a plaster for that cut," and Blair took a fistful of shirt and used it to lever himself up, till he was straddling Jim's chest, then half off, leaning back for a tentatively bolder kiss, smiling against Jim's mouth. 

"What?" Jim asked when they broke away. Blair grinned and patted Jim's cheek. 

"You want me, Jim. Oh, you want me," as if that had actually ever been in doubt. But when Jim opened his mouth to reply, he caught a flash of something dark and intense in his roommate's eyes, something that reminded him of how little he actually knew about this man who'd learned all about love from a mother who'd not just carried him with her for nine months, but the rest of his childhood, giving her life to him in more ways than one... and as Blair returned with the plaster, binding it around Jim's cut finger as he reached down for another kiss, and another, Jim thought maybe, just maybe he could let himself dream a little too. 

Dream in technicolor, not monochrome, dream of living flesh, not hungry ghosts. Dream that maybe this could be, and was their city, their lives together. It was a sweet dream if only for a little while. 

The city hummed back at him in half-angry agreement. 

(This is not where the story ends) 

\--- 

~ End. 

\--- 

So there are words and phrases in 'Warrior' that make me wonder, like 'Sentinel of the great city' and why Jim doesn't sound too happy about it at the end. IMO anyway. And if you assume, as I did, that Jim was completely straight and hellishly attracted to Blair, not certain if this was because of the Sentinel-Shaman thing or not, and suffering from a severe case of hypersensitivity post Incacha's death, then maybe that will explain how and why I wrote this story. 

Or not. _grin_. After all I think we write the stories we want to read ourselves. 

The two line quotes at the beginning are randomly taken from stories I've read. They're good stories; the first, 'I am infinite, I contain multitudes' from the 10th annual Fantasy and Horror Collection edited by Datlow and Windling. The second I think is from the Justice series by John Morgan Wilson. 

Talk to me? 

* * *

End

 


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